Return of a Dream
by gotta-rite
Summary: Sometimes the impossible dream comes true…Sometimes…


**Summary: Sometimes the impossible dream comes true…Sometimes…**

**This story has a rather vague setting in terms of what version of POTO it springs from, but it doesn't fit after Leroux's book anyway. Suffice to say that after Christine departed with Raoul, Erik was forced to leave the Opera and make his living in the old way, selling his dignity at a sideshow. He has been doing this now for some months. **

**© 2010 Gotta-rite  
With credit to Gaston Leroux for what's his (and probably A.L.W.)**

**PS. thanks for the reviews/favorites for Cold Ashes. Really nice to hear it was enjoyed. Cheers! **

**RETURN OF A DREAM**

"Erik?"

He looked at the shadowy form. It emerged from the darkness of the trees behind the gypsy tent, revealing a shape like hers; small, slight, delicate. Two pale hands rose up and drew back the hood obscuring the figure's countenance. The soft eyes, the perfect nose, the ruby mouth, the golden hair; they were all hers.

It was Christine.

He did not move or speak. He could not. The raucous cries and vulgar noise of the carnival revelers receded into a bizarre nightmarish buzzing in his ears. The flaming torches lighting the crowded thoroughfares between the amusements were no more than hellish fireflies dancing above a sea of unwashed wastrels. This world, which had become his once more, fell away into obscurity. Christine was here, like some creature from a fairytale, stepping out of the shaded woods.

It was not possible.

She approached a step further, watching him, firelight glistening in her eyes. There was barely a yard between them now.

"Erik? It _is_ you, isn't it?"

Somehow her question jolted him like a blow from a knotted cudgel. Instinctively he raised a hand to hold her off although she had stopped walking towards him already. She was standing almost within reach, only waiting for some sign of acknowledgment. He had to speak, and quickly.

"What are you doing here?" The words came out more gruffly than he had intended but no matter. The light in Christine's eyes flashed brighter in surprise.

"I…I have come back to Paris," she faltered in a small voice. He almost grunted at the inane reply.

"I was here yesterday," she hurriedly continued, apparently noticing the impatient turn of his head. "And I thought I recognized you…I only wanted to be sure."

So that was it! She had learned of his whereabouts and had come here to gloat. No doubt she had seen him in all his glory within the confines of the tent only a minute ago, a magnificent specimen of human degradation! She did not have to be afraid of him now. She did not have to pity him or pretend to care for him. She was safe with her little Vicomte and he, the Monster, was back where he belonged, with the gypsies.

The cloak she wore was open slightly at the neck. He could see her pale, perfect flesh rise and fall with every shallow breath. He raised his eyes to her face. It should have been possible to poison her with his look. But she withstood his venom with calm, resolute composure. Nobody ever looked at him like that – at least not for more than a second. There was something strange about _her_. Ever since the day she had seen his face she had been different. Other people avoided his gaze after discovering what lurked beneath the mask. Christine had sought to look at him all the more…Probably she was trying to work out how the mask was able to fit over such grotesque deformity.

But she was alone, at night, in this vile unprotected spot! What did that fool of a boy think he was doing letting her walk around a carnival at night all alone? She was a lamb in the midst of a den of jackals and wolves! Didn't he know how to take care of his prize?

"Where's that boy? Why isn't he here?"

He saw her pale cheeks turn a rosier shade as she looked away momentarily.

"Raoul and I…" Christine paused, dropped her face and swallowed. "We are no longer married," she admitted with difficulty.

An amused snort burst from his lips. And another. And without knowing why, his body was suddenly racked with bitter laughter. His chest shook and he doubled over, gripping his knees, laughing convulsively. It was wonderful! Supremely and stupidly wonderful! And there was beautiful Christine, frowning at him indignantly.

"It isn't funny, you know!" she protested.

"Oh, yes Christine, I'm afraid it is," he replied, shaking his head from side to side, "It's the most tragically funny thing that was ever heard, don't you think?"

"No, I don't."

His hilarity died away. Of course she could not see it from his point of view. She probably still loved that pathetic little popinjay, for all that he had tossed her aside, bored with her no doubt, just like all these fine gentlemen who wouldn't know happiness if it got up and bit them on the nose.

_The nose_…There was a joke in that somewhere...

"Well, what are you here for?" he asked again. "I don't want you." The words had dashed out before he could stop them.

She let her gaze fall away. "I'm quite sure of that," she replied quietly. "That's not why I've come here. I was simply concerned when I thought I heard your voice yesterday. I didn't suppose it could really be you."

"Why should it not be?" he imperiously demanded.

"Well…"

She hesitated. He knew what she was thinking.

"You're surprised to see me here?" he supplied.

Her discomforted silence was answer enough.

"Let me tell you something," he said, puffing out his chest and leaning forward just a little with his hands resting on his hips. He could see her beautiful eyes staring up at him with the same girlish trepidation that he remembered so well. "I don't need your concern or your pity. I'm doing quite well, actually. I don't _have_ to do this for a living, you know! I chose it. I can walk away from here any time I like."

There was fear blanching her features. _Good_!

"I don't suppose you call this much of a career," he went on. "But it's something I'm quite good at, wouldn't you say? No one to top me in the business! You ought to know!" She was trying to speak but he would not let her. "You know, I'm a bit of a public servant – they say screaming is good for the lungs. They get their full money's worth to last them a year and I do as I please! There's no skulking in cellars for me anymore! Or did you expect to find me a broken mess, begging for you to return?"

His tone was so angry, so bitter, he could see the shock and hurt in her eyes. But he didn't care. It was about time she learned how unimportant she was to his happiness. He would not grovel at her feet again. He would not weep or sigh or beg for her favor. He would be a man for once in his miserable life. But in spite of his resolve, the pause in his tirade permitted her to speak at last in a voice so soft and gentle that it pierced him to the soul.

"I only wanted to know that you are all right."

Oh, she was ever cruel, this girl! Why must she always be so damnably kind? His anger and his hate became useless weapons against an angel who refused to fight. She was looking at him with such true concern in her soft blue eyes. There was even a hint of moisture in them.

All at once his heart clenched like a fist, so tightly that he thought it would burst. The unsnapped cords of grief pulled savagely at his already grotesque visage. Thank God for the mask! An agony of emotion rushed over his body like a blazing fire. Pressing his hands to his chest, he shook like some crazy drunken derelict until finally her anxious, caring face tore from him the rasping, stumbling confession, "I…never…thought…I'd see you…again!"

He fell upon her mercy. He didn't care what she thought of him now. She had wanted to see a wreck – let her see one! Let the tears flow, let her despise him – what did it matter anymore? He had thought he could live without her. Obviously he was wrong. So let her kill him! Let her push him aside with cold-hearted disdain and terminate his existence forever!

She was holding him. So strange! He was leaning against her, crying into her hair and she was holding him.

"Please," whispered her gentle voice. "Please Erik, be calm. People are looking."

Let them look! Hadn't they seen enough already? But her little hand was stroking the back of his head. "Please. Don't cry now. Don't cry." Was there anything more sublime than this, to feel the comfort of her touch and the warmth of her voice? Fool that he was, he would never have enough of it, no matter how many times she pushed him aside when she was done with him.

But she was right. This was not the place to open his heart. Not here where the same eyes that had gorged themselves on his humiliated flesh might feast also upon his soul. Thus with an effort he halted his sobbing and released himself from her arms. He needed to wipe his tear-stained, grotesque face. It could not be done without lifting the mask so he turned aside from her, shielding himself from both Christine and the vulgar passersby. There was nothing pleasant about blowing one's nose, not even when one had one to blow. Christine waited until the worst of his nauseating self-maintenance was over before she spoke again.

"Where are you living now?" she asked between his sniffing. It made him freeze for a moment, handkerchief in hand. For that was something he could not tell her. To be reduced from the grandeur of his former domain to sleeping under a hay cart? It was more disgrace than he could bear.

"I live nowhere," he curtly replied, thrusting the sodden handkerchief into a pocket. At least that was vague and non-committal. She need not know the particulars.

"I'm sorry to hear that," she said. And truly she did look grieved.

"Well, I could hardly stay where I was," he growled with unnecessary rancor.

"Of course not."

"You didn't expect to find me in a palace, I suppose?"

"I didn't expect anything."

No, she wouldn't. And why was he raising his voice?

He wanted to feel her hands upon him again. He wanted to curl up in her motherly embrace as much as he wanted to tear away into the shadows, never to be found by her again. With an extreme effort he dared let his eyes rest fondly on her lovely face. She was every bit as beautiful as she had always been, with only a few weary lines between her eyebrows that told the extent of her young suffering; suffering that he had caused…and perhaps that _boy_.

"He left you," he asked abruptly. It sounded more like a statement than a question to his ears. Christine blinked a few times in confusion before answering.

"It was mutually agreed upon," she muttered in an embarrassed tone, not looking at him. She drew her cloak about her throat more closely, though it was not a chilly evening. "Raoul…It was difficult."

"He didn't love you," he stated flatly. That much was certain. He had always told her it was so. That boy could never love an angel like her.

"You mustn't speak so about Raoul," she objected in that old way which had always tormented him. "Remember that he was once…that he still _is_ my husband."

"You said you were no longer married," he gruffly returned.

"Marriage is an affair of the heart," she explained with a wistful tilt of her head. What did she mean by that? He felt the heat begin to rise in his chest once more, some invisible fist clenching his heart. "It doesn't end just because the law says so."

"Then take your damnable MARRIED heart away and LEAVE me to what is MINE!" he shouted in bitter anger. This was enough! He spun round on his heel to leave. She could rot in hell for all he cared.

"That is precisely why I am here!" he heard her cry out, beseeching him to wait. Her hand had seized his elbow. How he loved the gentle pressure through his sleeve! "I have come for that reason, to bring you what is _yours_! Erik!" she called him, making it impossible not to turn back round. Her eyes were gazing up at him like glittering opals. "Raoul has _released_ me. I am _yours_!"

Strange, he could almost believe it. There was nothing but clearest honesty in her gaze. She was fixed upon him, not blinking, not heedful of any other object. He could trace the outline of her features with the ghostly imagining of his fingers, slowly and tenderly, though he did not raise a hand. She was so very close to him, touching him, and in another moment she might so easily step away. But she was not going to. He felt it. She was here to stay, this beautiful, contradictory, mesmerizing girl!

Slowly he leaned forward. He saw her watch him as he bent closer, saw her eyes flicker over his lips. Then he touched her with them, squarely on her mouth. It was heavenly! Her body sighed as he drank his fill! Clutching her to him tightly, he fairly devoured her with his kiss and felt her melt with exquisite ecstasy. She was his! Oh yes, it was so! Deeper and deeper he sought to make her body know him. His tongue tasted every part of her mouth and soon enough he held her firmly to him while he tasted all that he wanted, her neck, her throat, the peeping roundness of her breast.

"Erik! Erik!" she breathed in an agony of longing.

He would have her! Right this moment, here, amidst the shadows of the trees! He lay his prize upon a soft mound of tufted grass. She was already reaching for his hips.

"Stay, Christine!" he murmured warmly, lowering his body onto hers. "Stay with Erik! Stay, Christine!"

He had seen these things happen in Mazenderan. Their customs were not so strict in that wild region of Persia. The women wore no veil and they lounged upon satin divans, inviting pleasure. But not one of them had ever smiled upon _him_. He was the Terror of Mazenderan, the Trapdoor Lover, the Living Death. He wasn't alive. He wasn't human. He wasn't _Erik_.

Christine rose up and brought her mouth once more to his lips; his ghastly, unsightly lips. What had happened to his mask? Somehow it had disappeared before that first sublime and wonderful kiss! No matter! This was what he wanted. Moments later she broke away and it was clear that Christine's eyes were full of Love.

"Christine, I love you," he murmured softly, breathing deeply to capture the delicate fragrance of her perfumed hair.

"I know, sweetheart," she whispered affectionately, stroking his forehead with the back of her fingers. "I know."

It was time. He grasped her firmly by the wrists. She struggled. He bit her shoulder. He had always wanted to. Those lovely curving shoulders!

But it felt hollow, and strange. He bit it harder. She did not cry out. And she tasted like hayseed. Strange! His tongue explored her for a moment. Hayseed, and the texture of dried grass!

In confusion, he opened his eyes.

Beneath him, there was no Christine. There was only a mound of straw, gathered up in a bundle and clutched firmly in his bony hands. Straw was filling his mouth and he spat it out in disgust. He was alone, under the hay cart where he had made his temporary bed.

And having realized this, he collapsed and wept bitterly.


End file.
